Her Fingers...

They glow... and no extinguishing ever touches them —
her fingers... not even the lighted candle glows so

As though God said, when He fashioned her
and shaped her: from her two hands, O light, come forth

If she beckons... her fingertips are a beam of light,
and if she asks... her open palm is sweet water

And if her two arms are lifted in answer,
the sky grows well... and the air falls faint

And if she walks... the light streams out from her,
and her robe shimmers from her two wings

She queens it over the young girls... a figure grown proud,
yet toward them there is no haughtiness in her

Hers are the high airs — a lily of loftiness
that noble pride perfects as it wills